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Watch for Wandering Towers
Okay, first I need to warn you, if you're hearing a sound playing in your head right now, right out of the blue, then I urge you to run right now. It's a specific sound, you'll know it when you hear it, partially static, and partially the voice of an announcer, any current television announcer. If you see the image of a television program, broadcast into your head in a yellow tint, like rotten paper, then it is too late. This phenomenon is not akin to any mental disorder, and that's because it's not a mental disorder. They're coming for us, the towers. You've surely heard of the disappearances. Surely, you've heard the rumors, of towers disappearing. Of little, deep cylindrical tracks stamped into the earth. About errant signals and those strange broadcasts, of gore and grue, of slaughter and speech-making. They hate us now, the broadcast towers. TV and radio, all of them, they're walking, ambling, with those red eyes, those spindle-wings of steel, hopping and fluttering up and down, as they move to converge. Oh yes, they're converging all right, just look at the sightings. Follow the deaths, connect the dots, they're coming. I don't know why they started hating us. It just happened one day. Maybe they were right about the effects of violence in the media, they just were talkin' about the wrong crowd. Or maybe they've seen what we're watching, and they hate us for it. That could explain what I heard in the radio and seen in the portable TV I bought to track 'em. And that could be why I see every TV and every radio cracked into a million plastic shards in every town I pass through. Images of reality TV stars being fed into a meat-grinder, talking heads melting into sludge, morning zoo deejays vomiting out their own intestines, the screams of pop stars. I hear and I see this shit every day, always new, and always more disgusting. It's like they're mocking us, throwing our depravity back at us, as they amble across the blasted plains. You can't destroy 'em. Planes fall out of the sky, tanks burst into flames, and I don't even want to say what happens to the drones. I saw some gun nut aiming an RPG at a herd of 'em once. One of them just looked at it with its big, red eye. He ended up shooting the RPG into his own mouth instead. I don't know what we can do to stop them. I've seen whole survival bunkers, sealed with lead and steel, where all the inhabitants chewed off their own skin to escape. I can see the air turn yellow as I write this, the same yellow that taints the air as they flap their steel wings. Hopefully you can run fast enough to live a little longer than I did. The medium is the message, and the message is that we have made a monstrosity of the media. Category:Items/Objects Category:Television Category:Theory